


God’s Love in These Fires of Hell

by LogicIsGod327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bottom Derek, Emotional Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicIsGod327/pseuds/LogicIsGod327
Summary: All Stiles wants is for them to be real. All Derek wants is to keep him safe. Neither can come out unscathed.





	God’s Love in These Fires of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested listening is Uneven Odds by Sleeping at Last, they fucking rock. It’s a... weird story. I’m apparently on a porn kick.

It’s time they had the talk. Stiles is determined that they have the talk.  _ The  _ talk. The talk about feelings and wants and needs and hopes and  _ love.  _ He is going to talk to Derek, and that is the end of it. 

Stiles doesn’t know where this resolve is coming from. It’s as if some wellspring of buried strength has suddenly blossomed from inside of him, like Athena’s olive tree bursting forth across the acropolis. Wherever it comes from, the resolution within carries him up the flights of rusted stairs to the vast doors of Derek’s loft. He pauses at the imposing portal, and collects his thoughts.

“Breathe, Stilinski.” He chides himself.

Where did this come from? Before, when Lydia had been his dream since the age of eight, there had been a singular moment which Stiles could point to and say that it was then that he had fallen for her. It was in their art time in Ms. Clayton’s second grade class when Greenberg had stolen her crayons from her desk, and Lydia, with fire in her eyes, proceeded to kick him in the shin so hard he had a bruise there for a whole week.

But Derek? Derek is an unknown. Stiles can’t tell when grudging respect became actual fondness, or when that fondness had become something deeper. He can’t even tell the very moment he realized it. It was as though the truth had been there forever, just waiting for Stiles to admit it to himself. Perhaps it was when he held Derek aloft in that water for hours on end, or when he had fought like Hell to preserve his life during the time of the Nogitsune. It could’ve just as easily been some inane moment of research or just a ten o’clock at night Taco Bell run. All Stiles can tell is that, when he finally acknowledged it, the fact that he was well and truly  _ in love  _ with Derek, it had settled in his bones like ancient truth. The sun is a star, the sky is blue, water is wet, and he loves Derek. That’s just how it is.

With one final steadying breath, Stiles raises his hand, and knocks at the old wooden door. There’s a sound of shuffling, and the dull pat of bare feet against concrete. The huge door opens, and there Derek is, his cerulean eyes wide with a question. All the strength that Stiles had suddenly found vanishes like rain in the desert, and he’s overwhelmed by the urge to divert, and drag up one of the supernatural questions that’s rattling around his brain and pretend it’s just time to research more of the Bestiary.

But he doesn’t. Stiles breathes in, swallows nervously, and speaks. “I wanna talk to you about something, can I come in?”

Wordlessly, Derek steps aside, gesturing at him to enter. He steps in, listening to the patter of rain against the smoky window in the great room. The whole place is lit in shades of grey and pale blue, with none of the lights on. An empty plate rests on the coffee table, next to a half-full glass of some obnoxiously bright soft drink. Mellow indie music drifts down from a speaker mounted on one of the columns. A book rests open and face down on the arm of the couch, and Stiles finds some of that resolve in the title.

_ The Stand,  _ by Stephen King. Sure, it’s a dystopia with graphic scenes of rape and horror, but the title is a damn good feeling right now. Stiles is standing, in a way, if only to risk being torn down.

“You wanted to talk?” Derek asks. There isn’t any of the usual gruffness or sarcasm in his voice. Instead, there is something curious, almost tender.

Stiles swallows again, clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah. I do.” He takes a seat on the couch, and gestures for Derek to do the same.

“So, I, uh, I think I love you.”

The words float in the air, hanging around long after they’ve left the ether. The look on Derek’s face is indecipherable. His eyes burn with questions, and something else yet unidentifiable, even as his face is the picture of placidity.

“Stiles…” There is something like a warning, or perhaps a lecture, in Derek’s voice.

“Wait.” He cuts him off. “I know, I know. You don’t feel that way. You’re not even queer, you couldn’t if you wanted to. I just- I needed to say it.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to swallow thickly. “It’s not that I don’t want to…” He trails uncertainly, unable to meet the other’s eyes.

“What?” Stiles demands, grabbing Derek’s hand.

“We can’t.” The werewolf sighs. “There are so many reasons we can’t, Stiles. If you were older, if I were safer, maybe, but… you’re sixteen, for God’s sake.”

Something hard burns in the teenager’s eyes. “If you were  _ safer?!”  _ He demands, the word coming out like a curse.

“Everyone who gets-” Derek begins, but is cut off by Stiles’ disbelieving scoff.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed Derek, but I’m not exactly safe myself. I mean, I was possessed by an ancient demon, for the love of fuck!” He bursts, standing up and running his hands through his already wild locks.

Derek looks down shamefully. For the first time, he appears small to Stiles, even weak. Even as he was dying with a wolfsbane bullet poisoning his blood, even as his baby sister lay dead in this very room, Derek has always been strong. Not now. His eyes are shiny, and his breath comes fast and shallow. He looks up at Stiles with something like uncertainty, almost begging for some form of closure.

The resolve fills Stiles once again, driving him to further illogical action, even as his instincts scream to run away. So, in spite of what both the angel and devil on his shoulders say, he crosses the space between them in three long strides and pulls Derek into a searing kiss.

To the wolf, he tastes too sweet with fury, along with deep undertones of sadness and the gentle, vanilla flavor of real love, unconditional love. All Stiles can taste of Derek is cocoa butter lip balm and the remnants of the chicken parmesan he was eating for his lunch. They kiss like they need each other to breathe, like they face death in mere seconds. Neither man breathes, the only sounds disturbing the vast room are the kissing and the hammer fall of rain against the windows.

“Fuck safety, fuck age.” Stiles snarls, pushing Derek down against the couch. “Fuck everything and everyone who isn’t us.”

Derek knows he should stop this now, stop this before he destroys them both, but he wants so badly to have something soft and warm and secretive, and Stiles could be that something. His resolve wavers as he loses himself in the sensation of the younger man’s lips, but it rallies. Just as he’s going to end it, Stiles straddles him and Derek can feel the long line of his erection against his stomach and he is  _ gone.  _ There’s no getting out of this whole for either of them, now.

The taste of fury is back, stronger now, and Derek can’t help but love it. Stiles invades him mercilessly, and he wants more and more of it. The younger man rips at the smoky grey Henley he’s wearing, tearing it off and drinking in the sight of Derek, his lips red and puffy from their furious kisses, with a deep crimson flush across his his entire chest, running along the perfect lines of his neck and coloring his high cheekbones.

Stiles dives in wordlessly, running his hands along the planes of Derek’s torso, groping at his ass even as he nips and kisses his way across his jawline and down the side of his neck, watching in rapt fascination as the bruises he leaves form and fade in seconds. The fury is fueled by this, as well. He wants to leave a mark that won’t vanish, to make the world know that he has been here, and that he will return. Derek doesn’t bother with the courtesy of removing Stiles’ shirt, he’s too far gone for that. He rips it apart like paper, the shreds falling to the floor. Stiles is grateful he didn’t really like this shirt anyway.

They press flush together, seeking friction and skin against skin. Stiles’ hand wanders from his ass to grab at the bulge of Derek’s erection, and he lets out a broken groan into the younger man’s mouth as stars dance behind his eyes. Derek grabs at Stiles’ waist, pushing him up even as he fights to keep them connected at the mouth.

“Bed.” He grunts out between kisses, gasping in a quick breath before nipping at one of his ears, kissing along the column of his neck.

Stiles spins them like they’re dancing, pressing Derek to the bed and straddling his waist, fumbling with the button on his too tight jeans. Derek guides his hands away, unbuttoning it himself and sliding the offending garment down. The other man’s mouth runs dry at the sight of Derek’s cock straining obscenely against his tight boxer briefs, but he’s too focused to pay it more than passing thought. Ripping the offending garment off, Stiles spreads Derek’s legs, the tight furl of his entrance exposed to the world.

“Lube?” He breathes out.

Derek huffs. “Left end table, third drawer.”

Stiles wastes little time in coating his fingers, looking up at at Derek from between his legs. Upon receiving a confirmation nod, he presses his middle finger into the tight warmth of Derek, his own erection twitching painfully in the confines of his jeans. Derek welcomes the intrusion, the slight burn holding him to the ground after gravity failed so long again.

The heat of Derek’s hole is enough to have Stiles scrambling to unbutton his jeans and slide them down, foregoing taking them off entirely.

“More.” Derek tersely commands, and he is helpless to comply, easing his pointer in and gently moving them back and forth.

Stiles leans forward, claiming Derek’s mouth in another kiss that has him seeing stars and gasping in for breath. Derek puts his weight against the intrusion of Stiles’ fingers, bearing down on them as he seeks deeper penetration. The other man takes this as a sign to add his ring finger. They kiss like men dying, even as Derek needs something more. The preparation stretches on forever, it seems to him, but Stiles finally decides he’s ready, and withdraws his fingers, only for Derek to whine at the loss. Lubing up the curved length of his cock, Stiles aligns himself with Derek, looking up at him from beneath heavy eyes.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

_ “Please.”  _ Derek grunts out, desperate.

Stiles presses without relenting, bottoming out in one fell swoop. Derek opens to greet him, welcomes him inside like an old friend, and the werewolf can only make broken little noises as he is filled in the way he needs. The teenager gives him a moment to adjust, and then pulls out his length halfway, pressing in gently. Derek rocks into the thrust of it, meeting him halfway down the middle. Stiles presses down against the long length of Derek’s chest to kiss him once more even as he wraps a hand around Derek’s uncut length, jerking him in time with the aborted half-thrusts he makes.

It is not gentle. Stiles builds up the force of his thrusts with rapidity, until each push rattles Derek like a rag doll, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, Derek takes it. He does not resist, he lets himself be claimed in a way Stiles just  _ knows  _ he never has been. The sound of skin against skin fills the air, still chorused by the rain now falling in thick sheets against the great window. They barely speak, only able to utter each other’s names and curses. Derek drags his still-blunt nails against Stiles’ back, spurring him on further. Stiles is determined to make quick work of this.

They fuck for longer than either expected, Stiles bracing himself on Derek’s chest, jerking him off with one hand and using his thumb to play with his nipple with the other. Derek’s eyes glow neon blue as he locks with Stiles’ own amber ones and finishes first, coming undone in his arms with a series of harsh, broken breaths as he paints his chest and the other man’s hand with his release, never breaking eye contact as he does. Stiles does not hesitate in his thrusts, but leans down, directly next to him.

“I love you, you know?” He whispers hotly in the elder’s ear. “I wanted you to love me. I wanted us to be something real.” He punctuates each word with a thrust.

Derek shakes his head. “But I’m not real.”

“Yes, Derek, you are.” Stiles says, his hips growing erratic. “You’re real to me, that’s all that matters.”

The conversation goes no further as Stiles thrusts one more time, as far in as he can, and lets loose inside Derek’s ass, emptying his genetic code there. Stiles falls flat against Derek’s chest, leaning up to kiss his jaw even as he carefully extracts his prick from Derek.

“Please.” Stiles begs. “Please let us be real. And if we can’t be real, let us be a story we tell together.”

Derek does not respond, only pulls the younger man close, wrapping him in his arms. He presses a kiss to his hairline, and they each drift off to the sound of downpour and the other’s steady breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m garbage who can’t write endings to save his ass, tell me this in the comment section. Until next time, cheers guys.


End file.
